Nothing Gold Can Stay
by thelittlefanpire
Summary: Bellamy and Clarke are exes trapped in a time loop where one of them goes on different dates at a speakeasy over and over while the other watches helpless to change anything. Written for the Angst Round 2 of the Chopped: The 100 Fanfic Challenge.


**Nothing Gold Can Stay **

_Bellamy and Clarke are exes trapped in a time loop where one of them goes on different dates at a speakeasy over and over while the other watches helpless to change anything._

_Written for the Angst Round 2 of the Chopped: The 100 Fanfic Challenge._

He wakes up in a cold sweat.

The gold light filtering in through his open window is shining directly into his eyes. He throws his arm over his head and groans. He's slept the whole afternoon, but his head is still pounding.

At least, the bright sun has dulled and his bedroom has cooled off considerably. The blinds flutter against the evening wind causing shadows to cast across his face. The pounding in his head intensifies. He places his other hand on his cheek and scrubs at his face. His beard scratches the surface of his palms. It's itchy from where he had started to grow it out again. He tries to sit up in the bed. The white sheets twist around his shins and the pillows bunch up between his thighs, so he kicks it all off onto the floor and throws himself back down.

Bellamy Blake often fell asleep as soon as his head hit a soft surface, but it usually resulted in a hard, deep sleep, not the fitful nap he had apparently just had.

He lies there squinting his eyes and scrunching up his nose trying to get his headache to dissipate. The pounding only seems to grow louder. It takes him a moment to realize the pounding isn't coming from inside his head at all anymore, but the front of his apartment.

Reluctantly, he rolls out of bed and stumbles down the hallway. His footsteps echo loudly against the hardwood floor. The rug that used to be there to muffle sound, was gone, like the paintings on the walls, and the extra furniture in the living room. Now all that's left is space.

_Like she wanted._

He's preoccupied in thoughts of his ex, that he doesn't bother looking through the peephole and goes straight for the door, throwing it open and revealing the very woman he was just thinking of.

"Clarke?" he asks in confusion, his voice thick with sleep. It's been months since he last saw her, but the first thing he notices is that her hair is longer and her face looks thinner then he remembers. Her blue eyes still burn bright as she looks up at him expanctly.

"Did you get my text?" she throws back at him quickly. Her knuckles are still resting on the door and she pushes her way inside, past Bellamy and his gaping mouth. His head moves slowly in her direction watching her take in the apartment they once shared.

He had moved the black leather couch closer to the television and all of his gaming consoles are stacked on the stand under it. The dark mahogany coffee table is piled up with books and empty coffee mugs. A dead plant sits in the corner of the room pathetically. And the kitchen would appear to be even barer if he was to turn his head around and look in that direction. It looks more like the bachelor pad it was before she moved in years ago.

"What are you doing here?" he finally speaks and shuts the door letting it reverberate into the empty space. Clarke takes a step back and there's too much space between them now. The muscle memory in his hand twitches and he wants to reach out to tuck a strand of her golden hair behind her ear or pull her back to him. He raises his hand and then runs it through his own curls at the last second instead when she answers him.

"I have a box of clothes here that I need for tonight. I texted you," she reminds him and pulls her phone out of her back jean pocket to wave in his direction. Bellamy glances down at himself. He has on a pair of gray sweatpants and no shirt. His phone is somewhere in the apartment.

"Sorry, I've been napping," Bellamy says and runs a hand through his hair again. Clarke scoffs and her eyes flicker down to his chest for a brief moment before shooting back up to his face.

"My stuff?" She doesn't look him directly in the eye when she says it and shifts from one foot to the other impatiently.

"You know where it is better than I do," Bellamy says and extends his hand out sweeping it across the room for her to go ahead and get it. She leaves him and heads to the spare bedroom. He can hear the scraping of the closet door against its metal track and the scuffling of boxes.

"Do you need any help?" he calls out to her as he begins to walk down the hall. He hears a muffled _no_and continues on to his bedroom to get ready for the night. He picks up a white tee from the floor and throws it over his head slipping it through his arms.

"Hey, Bell, do you know where my…" Clarke trails off when she sticks her head into the bedroom they once shared. It was always the messiest place in the house. Clothes are overflowing the chair in the corner, dirty or clean, Bellamy isn't sure. All the sheets are on the floor at the corner of the bottom one has slipped off the mattress too. His dress shirt and slacks are hanging off the back of the closet door for work tonight, but Clarke's eyes are staring straight at his nightstand.

To the picture of the two of them at the opening of The Dropship two years ago.

"I haven't really done much to the place. I've been busy," he tries to explain and shrugs. "What are you looking for?"

"My curling rod?"

"Bathroom?" he shrugs again and pulls out a pair of shoes from the closet as Clarke sits her box down on the mattress and goes into the master bathroom. He glances down at the box. Gold sequins and silk fill it up to the brim along with pearls and silver bangles. One of the fabrics matches the dress she has on in the photo on his nightstand. "Are you going on a date?"

"Yeah?" she says coming out looking at him hesitantly. She throws the hair tool and some products into the box before closing the lid. "It's so last minute and supposed to be super casual and honestly, I'm just trying to get out from under my mother for like a minute."

She's rambling. Bellamy knows how stifling it's always been for Clarke with her mother on the Council that keeps Arkadia under its thumb. Since Chancellor Jaha had thrown down the hammer on crime and illicit activities, and she had moved back home, he figured it had been hard for her.

"You should come by tonight then. Bring your date," he hears himself saying and he has to look away from her before she catches the strangled sound his mouth makes over the last word.

"Oh," she replies. She glances at his outfit hanging from the closet and the shoes he's still holding in his hands. The tiniest relief washes over her, from what, Bellamy can't decipher.

"What's the password?"

"Hakeldama."

Clarke nods and picks up her box of stuff. She smiles at him sadly and says, "It's good to see you, Bell. You look good."

"You too, Princess," is all he can manage as he walks her out of the apartment. His hand ghosts over the small of her back and again his hand aches to grab hold of her and caress the skin he sees peeking out as her shirt rides up on her hip under the box resting there.

He doesn't offer to help her down to her car and she doesn't give him much of a goodbye. She just leaves. Again. So he starts getting ready for the night.

He washes off the residue of his post-nap body in the shower and combs his curls out through his fingers. Once he's out and dressed, he parts his hair and adds a squeeze of oil in his hands rubbing it into his curls. All styles come back around and when he looks in the mirror, the roaring 20s aesthetic is in full force in his reflection. He throws a black leather jacket over his waistcoat and matching slacks then heads out the door.

It's a quick walk downtown through the twisting back alleys and side streets. Bellamy is careful to never take the same route twice. The police on the Chancellor's payroll are always patrolling the area at night. The sun has dipped low, almost completely under the horizon, and a cool fog blankets the ground.

When he arrives at Sinclair's Garage, he slips through the back entrance. The smell of gasoline and burnt metal fill his nostrils quickly. The lights are still on and he can hear voices floating up from under the hoods of cars and trucks. He walks up to a red Mustang and nudges a dolly with long, slim legs lying on it.

Raven Reyes slides out. Her face is covered in grease and motor oil smudges. The annoyance at having her work interrupted is replaced by a wide smile when she realizes it's Bellamy standing there. He helps her up. Her leg is still stiff from the paralysis of a bad batch of alcohol.

"Right on time, Blake! Sinclair!" she calls out for her boss and Bellamy sees the frizzy gray and black head of hair bobbing between the rows of cars coming towards them. Sinclair reaches out and shakes his hand tightly. He waves goodbye to Raven and follows the older man to the back of the shop.

"Your boys having any trouble moving supplies down the mountain?" Sinclair whispers as they pass one of the mechanics, Wick, sorting through papers in the office.

"Not that I'm aware, sir. Should we be worried about something?" Bellamy asks nodding to Wick and giving Sinclair a concerned look.

"No, no," he hurries. "Just a little bit of chatter, but I've got my ear on the ground for you."

"Thank you, sir." The men shake hands again and part ways. Sinclair strikes up a conversation with one of his workers walking by and Bellamy slips behind the statue of The Blind Raven.

The large metal bird was a gift from one of Raven's ex-boyfriends. It sits perched up high in the back of the garage, beside a line of kegs and tires stacked from wall to ceiling, with eyes that seem to follow you wherever you go. The wall, when pushed with the right force, gives way a few feet letting a person or two slip behind it inconspicuously. Once Bellamy's through, his eyes adjust to the dim red light.

The hallway slopes down gently going deep under the ground of the city. The brick walls grow damp with moisture as the red bulbs attached to a thick copper wire flicker above his head. And then he lands in a circular room with more corridors leading out in all directions and one golden door directly across from him.

He knocks on it twice, and when a peephole opens to reveal one green eye staring at him, he tells the person that it belongs to on the other side the password, and the heavy gold door is thrown open.

It's a lot of secrecy for a bar, but in the city of Arkadia, everything happening on the other side of that threshold is illegal. When Chancellor Jaha was elected, he had begun closing down the liquor stores on Sunday first, then he placed all kinds of taxes and regulations on the alcohol until it was almost impossible to get any into the city borders. Arkadia was as dry as the desert now.

Until the speakeasy was reborn.

Some knew it as The Blind Raven, from the statue in Sinclair's Garage. Some called it The Dropship, a place for delinquents and criminals to gather. The rich folk referred to as The Bunker, the entrance hidden in the Ark Hotel, right under the nose of the Chancellor himself. No matter what direction one stumbled upon it from or what it was called, the speakeasy was a haven for hooch and hops of the most hungry.

The musty, underground bricks are replaced with shiny, brass skulls covering the walls like wallpaper. Lavish white booths line the bottom of one wall and a bar runs along the other side. Bottles of liquor and mixers are stockpiled up to the ceiling on glass shelves behind it. Under a crystal chandelier, in the middle of the room, is a black and white checkered dance floor in front of a full jazz band.

Sweet smoke and piano notes float over to Bellamy as soon as he enters the room wrapping him in familiarity. He lets out a deep sigh and smiles to Macallan on the piano bench, who is warming up the house band for the night. The horns and strings play softly. Monty, Jasper, and Gina are behind the bar cleaning glasses and filtering out the barrels of whiskey and wine made from the Green's farm up in the mountains. It's the quietest and calmest the bar will be all night.

"Hey guys!" his voice booms out startling Jasper and Monty as they pour out a dark liquid into smaller, more manageable pitchers. "What have you come up with now, Jasper?"

"Just giggle water, but I'm calling this mix, Unity Day Juice," Jasper nods proudly to a metal canister and Bellamy leans in closer immediately getting a whiff of alcohol.

"Whew, that's strong."

"Yeah, I figured if tonight's crowd drinks enough of it, it's going to bring the whole room together!"

"Hey, B! We thought of a name for your new drink," Gina says with mischief dancing in her eyes. She nods at the row of bottles Bellamy uses throughout the night.

"Bellamy's Cock...tail," the three bartenders say in unison falling into a fit of giggles and snorts and laughter.

"The ladies are not going to be able to resist ordering that!" Monty says. Bellamy glances down at the night's drink menu and rolls his eyes. He takes the pad back over to the hostess stand and sets it down in front of Harper.

"Please, tell me you didn't agree to this."

"Sorry, Bellamy. Monty and Jasper were pretty keyed up from this afternoon's run and I just went along with it," Harper raises her arms helplessly with a sympathetic smile on her face.

"Did they have any trouble getting in?" he asks looking back at the barrels of illegal spirits.

"They had help," Harper offers and points to a corner of the room where Deputy Nathan Miller is placing his badge into a safe behind an oil painting hanging from the wall.

Miller is one of the only dirty cops willing to hang out in a place like this. With one ear on the ground above and his pockets filled with his weight's worth of Goldschläger, he's happy to give them a heads up and keep them safe from being busted by Jaha's men.

"Miller, I'm going to need all of your weapons tonight," Bellamy's voice rings with authority. He didn't own the place, no one really did, he had just found it during a drunken night out on the town when he had to hide from police after the prohibition had just started. But he was in charge here.

"All of them?" Miller asks, turning away from the safe to look at him, and being caught up in an embrace when Bellamy claps him on the back.

"We've got some Arkers coming in tonight and I don't want any trouble," Bellamy whispers by Miller's ear. He releases him and steps back gesturing for him to go ahead. Miller sighs but begins to unload. He sets his handgun on top of his badge. He pulls out the shock baton hidden in his jacket. Handcuffs, tear gas, and a walkie-talkie is pulled out of various pockets. All the things that are used to protect are dangerous down here where the tempers are short and space is small. If anyone slipping through the fancy hotel to The Bunker does come in tonight, Bellamy wants to be safe rather than sorry about it.

"Have a Cock...tail tonight. On me," he tries to lighten the mood, testing out the words his bartenders had teased him with when he came in, but he can only hear their snickers from earlier when he says it.

"Nah, I'm good, Bellamy," Miller teases back. Bellamy doesn't see what else he puts inside, but eventually, the cop shuts the safe and sits down in the corner booth angled with a view of the door and the bar. Ready to watch the night unfold.

The next few hours fly by, as they finish setting up and open the speakeasy for the night. People pour in from all over. Like Bellamy, the people of Arkadia enjoyed the atmosphere and the beauty of the speakeasy. Men and women came in dressed to the nines. Suits and hats, sparkling dresses and headbands. It looked like the pages of a F. Scott Fitzgerald novel. The band gears up. The first drinks are mixed.

"Welcome to The Bunker," Bellamy's behind the bar when he hears Harper's chipper voice. His head shoots up looking in that direction and he sees her.

Having recognized one another, Harper and Clarke are shouting excitedly over the hostess stand and reaching out their arms for a hug. It had been months since Bellamy and Clarke broke up, and even longer than that since Clarke had been down in the speakeasy. Their friends had missed her and she had clearly missed them. She waves to Monty and Jasper as she leads her date down the bar.

Bellamy swallows thickly at the sight of her. Her golden dress fits snugly over every curve of her body landing tightly mid-thigh. It leaves her creamy legs bare down to her matching tasseled heels. Looking back up at her made-up face she arches a sharp eyebrow up over her smokey eye at him. He smirks and doesn't even notice her date until they're both seated at the bar in front of him.

"Bellamy, you remember Lexa?" Clarke reintroduces him to the brunette in a black feminine suit. Her brown hair is pinned back in a low bun and her face is already puckered up in a slight grimace as she tries to smile at him. She hasn't even tried the whiskey sour on the menu yet.

Bellamy faintly remembers Lexa as Clarke's ex-girlfriend from college. They had a hot and cold relationship that ended badly the first time around and he's perplexed to find them together again.

Before he can speak, Macallan steps up to the satin chrome-plated vintage mic and croons out a low note that fills up the speakeasy. His voice scratches out like the needle on a record player against a record singing a song from long ago. The scats and riffs increase until the singer is red in the face and the dance floor is packed causing the chandelier to shake overhead.

While the women in front of him are distracted, he mixes and places two glasses of his specialty down in front of them. Bubbles float up in the liquid gold of the cocktail.

"Clarke," Lexa's voice is low with warning, but Clarke rolls her eyes at her when she turns around and takes a big gulp of her drink. Her date scoffs loudly and looks around the room before standing back up and walking back towards the crowded entrance of the speakeasy. Clarke shoots Bellamy an apologetic look and follows the woman out quickly.

"Be right back!" she shouts over her shoulder at him.

Miller fills her vacant seat and leans towards Bellamy to speak quietly, but still be heard over the music, "We've got a lot of teetotalers in here tonight, man."

Bellamy glances around at all the faces in the room. He recognizes Delinquents and Arkers, the high and low classes of Arkadia. But the hooch is flowing too freely for him to decipher who is wet or dry, those consuming and those abstaining. He trusts Miller though and slides him a shot glass.

"Keep your eyes sharp," Bellamy says gruffly. They tip their heads back at the same time swallowing the bitter liquor and Miller slips away as Clarke approaches. By herself.

She's dabbing at the corner of her eyes and sniffles before clearing her throat when she sits down on her barstool, "Can I get a shot of whatever you and your corrupt cop friend were just taking?"

"Miller was corrupt before we became friends, you know? You okay?" he looks at her with concern and fixes her a tall shot glass.

"I didn't realize Lexa was so loyal to the law. She couldn't stand to spend another second down here...with me," Clarke whispers the last words, but it sinks right down Bellamy's ear canal to his sternum. Clarke rubs at the back of her neck and scratches the base of her head letting her curls fall over her shoulder and causing the golden finger waves to loosen.

His fingertips graze her other hand that lays across the bar and she looks up at him, her blue eyes sparkling with tears. The sight of it takes his breath away. Bellamy searches her face hoping to read her thoughts the way he did so effortlessly in the past.

"Clarke, I'm so—" before he can finish apologizing for all the things he had done wrong that caused her to leave him, the sound of gunfire rips through the underground speakeasy. The jazz band goes silent and the screams of the dancers mix in with loud shouts and bangs.

Bellamy tells Clarke to duck down and they hit the hard floor. He crawls to the front of the bar meeting her halfway. Terror fills her eyes and he pulls her to his chest hiding them back against the wall. They sit in the shadows for a second watching the people run by and then Bellamy grabs her hand pulling her up so they can follow the crowd out of the room. His eyes scan the speakeasy frantically, searching for his bartenders, Miller, the shooters. He can't make anyone out in the sea of panicked bodies.

Clarke's fingers squeeze his hand tightly alerting him to the dance floor. The chandelier above them swings wildly until the cord snaps and then the room goes pitch black.

—

He wakes up in a cold sweat.

The honey light filtering in through his open window is shining directly into his eyes. He turns his head away and groans. It's cooler in the room now, and Bellamy figures he's slept the whole afternoon away, but his head is still pounding.

He scrubs at his itchy beard and squeezes his temples between his thumb and index finger. He recognizes the pounding coming from the front door of his apartment faintly in the back of his mind and kicks all the sheets off the bed to get up.

"I'm coming!" he shouts his voice rough with sleep. He clears his throat as he walks down the empty hallway and throws open the door.

"Clarke?" he questions, confusion coloring his face. Her blue eyes burn brightly at him. "What are you doing here?"

"I have a box of clothes here that I need for tonight. I texted…"

"You texted me, right. I was napping again," Bellamy finishes her sentence cocking his head to the side in more confusion. His body blocks the doorway.

"Can I come in?" Clarke asks annoyed. She's standing on the welcome mat they bought at the gardening store together and she's an arm's length away from him. Her eyes flicker down to his bare chest and back up to his face.

"Do you need any help?" Bellamy hears himself calling after her as she pushes past him when he doesn't answer. She moves into the apartment, glances around briefly, and then heads to the spare bedroom. She waves him off, but the question echoes around inside his mind.

He stumbles down the hallway and leaves her to her boxes. His work attire is hanging neatly off the back of the closet and his room is a mess, but he goes straight to the bathroom.

"Hey, Bell, do you know where my…" Clarke trails off when she sticks her head into the bedroom they once shared. Her eyes land on the golden picture frame sitting on his nightstand. Bellamy has his face nestled into her hair, in the photo, and she's laughing as they sit tangled up in one of the white booths at The Dropship.

"Here you go," he drops her curling iron down into the box and she looks up at him curiously. "Do you need anything else?"

She hands him the box in answer and goes to the bathroom. She rummages through the drawers and cabinets. Bellamy glances down and sees the gold sequins and silk spilling out. The words tumble out of his mouth before he comprehends what he's saying.

"You have another date?"

"What?" Clarke asks. Bellamy doesn't give her a chance to say anything more until he's walking toward the bathroom meeting her as she exits.

"Don't go out with Lexa tonight," he pleads. The words Clarke tries to say falters and she looks down sheepishly. Her eye catches on his dress shoes sitting under his slacks. She looks back up at him, the blue fire in her eyes swirling.

"Come to The Dropship. Bring a date, anyone besides her. You know she would never break the rules," Bellamy hurries to explain. Relief washes over her when he says those words and she nods at him.

"No, you're right. Lexa was a last minute call to get away from my mother for a night, but it's not worth it. What's the password?"

"Hakeldama," Bellamy recites from memory. They walk out of the room together. Bellamy's hand ghosts over the small of her back and his hand ache to grab hold of her and caress the skin he sees peeking out as her shirt rides up on her hip under the box resting there. He shakes his head at the intense thought and pulls his hand away when they reach the front door.

He doesn't offer to help her down to her car and she doesn't give him much of a goodbye. She just leaves. Again.

It takes him the whole time he's getting ready to shake away the strong feelings of déjà vu.

It's a quick walk downtown through the twisting back alleys and side streets. Bellamy is careful to never take the same route twice. The police are always lurking around this area at night. The sun has dipped low, almost completely under the horizon, and a cool fog blankets the ground.

When he arrives at Sinclair's Garage, he slips through the back entrance. He nudges Raven's dolly but keeps moving in the direction of Sinclair's office. He sees the man's salt and pepper hair bobbing between cars in his direction. Bellamy waits for him at the statue of the Raven.

"Your boys having any trouble moving supplies down the mountain?" Sinclair asks walking up to him. His arms are crossed and he pretends to count the tires stacked up on the wall beside them to draw attention away from their conversation. Bellamy can see Wick sorting through papers in the office but he isn't paying attention to them.

"What should we be on the lookout for, sir? The Ark Guard? The Eligius Gang?" Bellamy asks as an uneasy feeling settles in the pit of his stomach.

"No, no, no," Sinclair hurries to answer him. "Just picking up a little bit of chatter, but I've got my ear on the ground for you."

"Thank you, sir."

The men shake hands and part ways. Bellamy feels the eyes of the Blind Raven watching him the whole way down the red corridor to the golden door.

"Hakeldama," he says before the peephole is even fully open and he pushes into the room.

Sweet smoke and piano notes float over to Bellamy as soon as he enters the room wrapping him in familiarity. He lets out a deep sigh and smiles to Macallan on the piano bench, who is warming up the house band for the night. The horns and strings play softly. Monty, Jasper, and Gina are behind the bar cleaning glasses and filtering out the barrels of whiskey and wine made from the Green's farms up in the mountains. It's quiet and calm.

When Gina notices his presence, she snickers and nudges Jasper.

"Hey, B! We thought of a name for your new drink!" she calls to him and the mischief in her eyes remind him of the end of a punchline. He beats his bartenders to it.

"Bellamy's Cock...tail? Yeah, really funny. Thanks, guys!" Bellamy chuckles at their blank faces. "It's been a weird day, okay? Stock up on extra glasses. It's going to be a full house tonight."

He shares a smile with Harper as he passes her to the back corner of the room where Miller is placing his badge into a safe behind an oil painting hanging from the wall.

"Miller, I'm going to need all of your weapons tonight," Bellamy's voice rings with uncertainty. The déjà vu feeling is back and the edge of a memory plays in the back of his mind. He shakes it off when Miller questions him.

"All of them?"

"We've got some Arkers coming in tonight and I don't want any trouble," Bellamy whispers by Miller's ear thinking of Clarke. Miller nods curtly and begins to unload. He sets his handgun on top of his badge. He pulls out the shock baton hidden in his jacket. Handcuffs, tear gas, and a walkie-talkie is pulled out of various pockets. A knife strapped to his calf and a handful of stray bullets go in next. Bellamy doesn't see what else he unloads but at the last second, before Miller closes the safe door, he reaches in and pulls the gun out.

"Keep this one on you, just in case."

When Harper squeals by the hostess stand, Bellamy looks up and sees Clarke entering the speakeasy. A blonde trails behind her wrapped up in silver and fur.

He meets them behind the bar.

"Bellamy, this is Niylah. Niylah, Bellamy," Clarke introduces them awkwardly and Niylah smiles at him before extending a slim hand in his direction. He shakes it and asks them what they'd like to drink.

Before the women can answer, Macallan steps up to the satin chrome-plated vintage mic and croons out a low note that fills up the speakeasy. His voice scratches out like the needle on a record player.

"Clarke," Niylah places a hand on Clarke's arm and they make their way to the dance floor. Macallan's mouth moves so quickly Bellamy can't keep up with what he's even singing and so he just watches Clarke dance.

She places her hands on Niylah's shoulders and they swing back and forth together. They're laughing and then they're not as soon as Clarke's hand slips down on Niylah's waist. The other blonde's face pales and she pushes away from Clarke. They get lost in the crowd and he can't find Clarke anywhere until she's sitting right back in front of him.

"What happened?" Bellamy shouts over the music.

"That's what I get for inviting a girl out who's still questioning her sexuality and decide to give her a hands-on, crash-course on it." Clarke rolls her eyes and waves Bellamy's concerned look away. "Just fix me a drink, Bell."

"Coming right up, Princess."

He mixes her a few of his cocktails, making sure to keep the drink menu out of her sight. She always did trust everything he made for her. He knew the right amount of bootlegged liquor to give her to get her tipsy. They're a little past that point when they take their third shot together. And then the hairs on the back of Bellamy's neck stand up on end.

The sound of gunfire rips through the underground speakeasy. Screams of people ring out and everyone scatters.

Bellamy tells Clarke to duck down and they hit the hard floor. He crawls to the front of the bar meeting her halfway. Terror fills her violet eyes and he pulls her to his chest hiding them back against the wall. They don't sit there for very long. Bellamy grabs Clarke's hand pulling her up and he drags her over to a hidden panel in the skull decor. Bellamy pushes open the door and tells Clarke to go through first to a flight of stairs shooting straight up.

His eyes scan the speakeasy frantically, searching for Monty, Jasper, Harper, Gina, or Miller. Anyone. But he can't make them out in the sea of panicked bodies. The chandelier above them swings wildly until the cord snaps and then the room goes pitch black. A flash of fire and a bang go out and then Bellamy's shoulder feels like it's been ripped apart.

He cries out in pain but manages to stumble up the stairs behind Clarke. They climb higher and higher into the pitch blackness as the noise from the speakeasy fades away to a dull roar in Bellamy's ears. He can barely see straight when they make it to the top of the stairs. The moon shines brightly over the lake on the hill that the door opens up to.

"Where are we?" Clarke asks out of breath and plops down into the grass. Bellamy trips over the last step and crashing into her side. "Oh, my God! Are you okay? Are you bleeding, Bellamy?"

Clarke pulls his leather jacket away from his shoulder. Blood is seeping down the front of his vest. She assesses his body and looks down at his face placing a hand on his damp forehead.

"You were shot! And you're burning up!" Clarke panics and looks around. "Where are we? I have to go get help!"

"No, Clarke," Bellamy puts a hand on her forearm and looks into her eyes. "Monty and Jasper run their moonshine through this way. We're at the edge of town. It'll take too long to get back. And you're not going back down those stairs alone, you understand me?"

"Bellamy…" Clarke cries softly but nods.

"Clarke, look at me," Bellamy groans and reaches out his good arm to caress her face. His hand feels like it's warming up after it's been submerged in an ice bath. Coming back to life as he touches her soft skin. "I just want to try one thing…"

Clarke closes her eyes and leans toward him pushing up on her knees. He can feel her warm breath washing over him and then he blacks out.

—

He wakes up in a cold sweat.

The amber light filtering in through his open window is shining directly into his eyes. He throws his arm over his head and groans. His head is pounding.

The blinds flutter against the window causing shadows to cast across the room and a breeze to blow across his clammy face. The pounding in his head increases. He lies there with his eyes shut tight and wishes he hadn't drunk so much alcohol the night before. The pounding only seems to grow louder. It takes him a moment to realize the pounding isn't coming from inside his head at all, but the front of his apartment.

He shoots up in the bed and looks down at his shoulder expecting to see a bandage or blood, but it's clean. His bronze skin doesn't appear to have a single blemish or wound, save for the freckles that are dotted along his collarbone. He stumbles out of bed, dragging the sheets behind him and down the hallway. His footsteps echoed loudly against the hardwood floor.

He's preoccupied in his thoughts of Clarke and the wild night before, that he doesn't bother looking through the peephole and goes straight for the door, throwing it open and revealing the very woman he was just thinking of.

"Clarke!" he exclaims, his voice thick with emotion. He reaches for a hug but the petite blonde jumps back in surprise.

"Do you have Jake walk from a bad batch of Jasper's gin? What the fuck is wrong with you?" Clarke throws out her arms ready to catch him if he falls. She looks down at his chest and licks her lips.

"Did you get my text?" she looks up quickly and drops her hands. She pushes her way inside, past Bellamy and his hanging arms. His head doesn't follow her inside but stays staring at the place she was just at in the doorway.

"I was napping?" the words come out slowly forming a question at the end and he turns inside. "Did we make it back here last night? What happened after The Dropship?"

"I don't know how _your_night went last night, but I had to listen to the Council debate a curfew for single women under the age of twenty-five. So I'm here to get my stuff and I'm going out."

She leaves him with his mouth hanging open and hurries down the hallway. He follows her this time. Like last time? Nothing is making sense to Bellamy anymore. His head throbs, but his shoulder doesn't hurt.

He walks slowly into the spare bedroom and finds Clarke kneeling on the floor in front of the closet. Boxes are pulled out. He can see the golden dresses in one, but Clarke has her hand on top of another.

It's resting on white lace and tulle. She's fingering the gold band attached to a silk pillow. Bellamy can see the messy scrawl of Clarke's handwriting on the side of the cardboard. _Wedding Stuff._

"I'm sorry, Clarke. I was going to donate all of this as you told me to," Bellamy hesitates and closes his eyes. He can see the night she left clearly in his mind. Throwing all of her things into boxes frantically. Tearing her wedding gown down from the hooks on the back of the closet. Bellamy had turned away as she stuffed it in the box. Their wedding was six months away. Until she called it off and ran away.

"Don't bother. Just burn it," Clarke says bitterly and pushes it back into the closet. She picks up her box of dresses.

"Look, I don't know what's going on, but you should come by The Bunker tonight. Sneak out of the hotel after dinner or something. Abby and Jaha won't even notice," Bellamy offers.

"You should put a shirt on," Clarke retorts and walks out of the apartment.

Bellamy stands there dumbfounded.

"That's not how that was supposed to happen," he whispers.

He doesn't bother slicking down his hair or putting on any fancy clothes for the night. He puts on a black tee from the floor, slips into a pair of jeans and leaves his curls in an unruly mess. Then he heads straight to the speakeasy.

He doesn't go through any back alleys or side streets but walks right down the main strip in the fading twilight. Every headlight looks like a cop car and every screech of tires sounds like the beginning of a drive-by. Bellamy's nerves are on edge by the time he makes it to the Speakeasy.

No one's guarding the golden door when he gets to the underground room so he lets himself in. He flicks on the chandelier's light switch, the chandelier and the long bulbs running on top of the skull decor spark to life. He sets to work cleaning glasses and wiping down the bar to keep himself distracted until Monty and Jasper's delivery comes in.

The hidden panel pops open and barrels of bootleg liquor come rolling into the speakeasy. Monty had created a track on the steep stairs for them to roll down. All they had to do was get the barrels down the mountain, reach the lake, and toss in the barrels. It was quick and effective.

Macallan is the first person to arrive with his band. They warm up there instruments and voices. The scratches in Macallan's voice remind Bellamy of the swinging chandelier and he pulls out a ladder to take a look at it.

That's how the rest of them find him, high on the ladder tightening the bolts and screws on the crystal chandelier. They laugh and joke and this time, Bellamy acts equal parts surprised and offended when they name his cocktail.

He meets Miller at the door. His dirty cop friend looks exhausted with bags hanging under his brown eyes and a beard that looks scragglier than Bellamy's. Spying on a corrupt leader was taking its toll on him.

"Miller, I'm going to need all of your weapons," Bellamy commands his voice full of authority. The others in the room look up in alarm at how loud his voice is.

"All of them, man?" Miller tries to whisper. They all know he's a cop, but it's not something that's usually advertised. Bellamy nods.

"Listen up, everybody. We're going to have some unfriendlies in here tonight and I need everyone to be prepared," Bellamy gets the attention of them all. Harper walks over and Gina, Jasper, and Monty look up from the bar. The band falls silent.

"What did you hear?" Miller asks.

"Should we just shut down for the night?" Harper says in a frightened voice.

"No, nothing. And it's too late for that," Bellamy tries to calculate what time the shooting had happened before but he doesn't remember. He doesn't know who is behind it. And it's too late to get the word out that the speakeasy isn't opening tonight.

Miller pulls out his handgun and sets it down on the bar. He pulls out the shock baton hidden in his jacket and Bellamy hands it to Harper. Handcuffs, tear gas, and a walkie-talkie is pulled out of various pockets. A knife strapped to his calf and a handful of stray bullets are laid down gently. Miller pauses.

"All of them, Miller," Bellamy huffs.

Miller begrudgingly pulls out four pistols from the back of his waistband, two knives from his other calf, flash bombs, more tear gas, a small pistol from an ankle holster, and a black metal drum magazine.

"Is that a 100-rounder?" Jasper jumps up on the bar and takes it from Miller's hands to inspect it. "Where's the rest of it?"

Miller sighs and reaches down his pant leg shaking his leg to produce a long barrel. A lower and upper receiver, a spring, and various parts come from more pockets of Miller's overcoat. The cop quickly assembles his weapon and puts out his hand for the magazine. Jasper gives it to him and he gives it a spin popping it in place to make a Tommy gun.

Everyone's mouths hang open in shock. The pile of weapons littering the bar is hard to believe that it all came from one person. Bellamy moves first, handing Jasper and Monty the pistols. Gina picks up a knife and twirls it around her fingers.

Miller eyes everyone with his weapons, "I hope you're right, Blake.

"I hope it changes something," Bellamy whispers.

Armed and dangerous, The Dropship welcomes the first of their customers. Harper makes sure everyone has the password and takes a small fee from the ones who don't, taking down their names. She shows her list to Bellamy, but nothing seems amiss. He tries to relax, but he's on such a high alert that he doesn't notice when Clarke walks up to the bar.

The golden flecks of her dress don't sparkle as brightly as he remembers, but she still fills the dress out nicely. Her bare legs look longer in her heels. She arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow up at him while he blatantly checks her out and sits down slowly. Then Bellamy notices the woman with her.

Her hair is dark and wild, the ringlets falling down thickly around her dark face. Her eyebrows are thick like the rest of her body. She's beautiful but intimidating. Bellamy's never seen her before.

"This is Luna, Bellamy. Luna, Bellamy," Clarke introduces them. They eye each other warily, not bothering to shake hands.

"Can I get you anything?" he asks. Luna glances at the drink menu and he cringes when her full lips pull back over her teeth in a smile.

"I'll take Bellamy's Cock...tail? And what about you, Clarke?" She slides the menu towards Clarke. There's panic in the blonde's eyes until she looks down and bursts out laughing.

"Oh, did Jasper or Gina do this? Because I _know_you didn't!" Clarke says and looks back up at him. Her smile is wide and her eyes are bright. Bellamy's breath catches and he can't even answer her.

He finally unfreezes when she looks away and begins mixing their drinks. They drink and laugh, coming back and forth from the dance floor. It looks like they're having a great time. Bellamy's thumb touches the gun tucked into his waistband periodically. And then Clarke sits down at the bar alone. Again.

"Where's Luna?"

Clarke hooks her thumb over her shoulder. Bellamy looks across the dance floor to a booth where Luna is talking to Raven. He didn't see the mechanic come in. She's changed clothes. Out of the blue overalls and into a cream dress covered in balls of pearls. Clarke takes a sip of her Cock...tail and raises her eyebrows.

"I'm not to going to say anything. I just thought she came with you."

"She's a friend from my art class, but there wasn't really any chemistry there."

Clarke stares at Bellamy as he takes orders and fixes drinks. Monty comes over to tell Clarke he misses her and slips Bellamy the list from Harper. There's Eligius crew here now. The veins in his forearm stick out from force when he sits down a drink he was mixing.

"You need to follow me now," he tells her and reaches for his gun. His eyes are dark and serious. Clarke stands up quickly and without question to follow him. He doesn't take her to the front entrance, or the stairs, but to an empty room that leads nowhere. A place they keep their supplies in.

"What's going on?" Clarke asks worriedly. There's no time to explain. Bellamy cracks the door watching, waiting for the gunfire.

But nothing happens.

He finally shuts the door and looks back at Clarke. Her arms are wrapped around herself and she looks nervous. It's cold and damp in the cellar.

"Something's going to happen tonight. I need you to be safe," he drops on her. The feeling in his chest, when he looks at her, intensifies. She takes a step toward him.

"Bellamy, I'm sorry…" she murmurs and places a hand on his chest. The contact stuns him. He can feel her pain seeping into his heart. Her eyes are watery, but she smiles.

"I'm sorry for leaving," her voice cracks and he can hear the band tuning up for another song. The low note of a trumpet comes through under the door.

"Why did you?" he asks covering her hand with his and interlacing their fingers. If he has to repeat this day over and over, he wants to know the truth.

"It was the only way to keep you safe. Jaha was going to find out about us. And I knew I had to leave, so you could keep this place safe!"

"We were supposed to get married! Who cares if Jaha found out? Who cares if this place falls? I love you, Clarke!" he's shouting and he wants to pull away, but he can't let go.

"Why did you come tonight? Why do you always come?" he continues looking down at her desperately. Every question he unloads on her hits with a heavy blow. Her makeup is running down her cheeks and she shakes her head.

"I can't tell you."

"What's going to happen tonight?"

Clarke's eyes are pleading with him. Bellamy doesn't know how long he has left until he wakes up into another nightmare so he grabs her face.

"Please, Clarke."

"It's Wells. I think he told his father about the speakeasy," she cries and Bellamy doesn't breathe.

Her hand stays on his chest and her eyes dart between his eyes and mouth. It reminds him of early in the evening when she came over to the apartment. The nervousness, the fidgeting, the glances at their past.

"We can't change anything then," Bellamy decides.

"Let's just get this out of our system," he breathes and leans down capturing her mouth in a fiery kiss. His hands slid up into her curls and she wraps her arms around his biceps. There's desperation boiling between the two of them. He can feel the sparks of gold shooting off as he deepens the kiss and Clarke presses herself into him.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," she repeats when they take a breath. Bellamy puts his index finger to her lips to quiet her and then slips his hand down to her throat gently. He can feel her blood rushing under his fingertips and Clarke's chest heaves as she takes in a deep breath.

"I'm sorry, too."

"Bellamy—"

"I should have gone after you. I should have protected you. You should…," he chokes up and continues. "You should have felt safe with me."

"I can't go back and relive the day I left you," Clarke whispers, sorrow heavy in her voice.

"I can though," Bellamy says finally understanding. He kisses her again and by the time he hears the gunfire in the speakeasy he's coming inside of her.

—

He wakes up in a cold sweat.

The light filtering in through the window is a pale yellow. His head isn't throbbing, so he hears the knocking on the door quicker. Everything from the days before come rushing back to him.

When he opens the door and sees Clarke standing there, he goes straight for her. Before his lips have fully crashed onto hers, she slaps him hard across the cheek in shock.

"Bellamy Blake!"

"I'm sorry I didn't chase after you!"

Some days she kisses him back and they tumble back into the apartment. Some days she storms away and doesn't show up at The Dropship at all.

He takes different routes, even going as far as slipping into the hotel. He sees Clarke at dinner with her different dates, Chancellor Jaha with the Council and there isn't much he can change. Wells Jaha always eludes him. The actions of the Chancellor's son set in motion before Bellamy could do anything about it.

He tries to tell as many people who will believe him about what's going to happen, but it doesn't change anything.

Closing the speakeasy for the night causes a massacre in the underground tunnels. He watches the statue of the Blind Raven fall. And the chandelier always crashes to the ground.

When time seems to speed up and all the colors seem to fade, he repeats the conversation with Clarke in the supply closet.

"I'm sorry for leaving."

"I'm sorry I let you walk away."

—

He wakes up in a cold sweat.

The gold light is back, filtering in through his open window and shining directly into his eyes. Before the wind can rustle the blinds, he's up and out of bed. He scrubs at his face trying to decide what to do. His beard scratches the surface of his palm. It's itchy from where he had started to grow it out after Clarke left.

He can see the day replaying over and over in his mind. Every decision he made. He traces his footsteps to the front of his apartment. He looks through the peephole and sees Clarke pacing back and forth outside the door. She hasn't knocked yet, but he can see her debating, worry etched between her eyebrows and her shoulders sagging under the weight she's placed there.

And Bellamy knows what he as to do.

He hurries through the apartment, throwing the dead plant in the corner out onto the balcony, dragging out the boxes she needs and the supplies in the bathroom, making the bed and cleaning up as many messes as he can before she starts to knock. He flips the golden picture frame of the two of them into a box.

Taping shut all the boxes and setting them by the front door he realizes how much color Clarke had brought into his life. The apartment is left with only blacks and whites and muted tones. Nothing gold was left.

In the bathroom, he runs a razor over his jawline, shaving away his beard and gets himself dressed for the night quickly. Clarke is blowing up his phone and knocking furiously by the time he answers the door.

"Hey, Clarke! I got your text. Did you want all your boxes?" Bellamy says and kicks at the stack by the door. Clarke looks at his fresh face and down to the clean floor at the pleasant surprise and smiles.

"Hey, Bell. Thank you? Are you going somewhere?"

"To The Dropship? I can walk you out." He picks up all the boxes, leaving the lightest one for Clarke to carry out. He locks up and she follows him down the stairs. He catches her looking down at the box of golden dresses and the picture frame.

"You should swing by tonight. I've got a new drink for everyone to try out. And besides, the Delinquents have missed you, Princess."

"What's the password?" Clarke asks distractedly.

"Hakeldama," Bellamy laughs out loud when he tells her. It wasn't something he thought about a lot the last few days, but now when he stops to think, he can't help but laugh.

The passwords were chosen at the end of the night for the next opening of the speakeasy. They'd come from a list of words Bellamy had found in a book in the empty bunker. It was fitting for all the blood that would be spilled that night.

Clarke eyes him, but smiles warmly at him. They walk down the stairs and he loads the boxes up into the trunk of her car.

He walks her up to the driver side of the car. His hand ghosting over the small of her back. He doesn't dare touch her skin though. No matter how much his fingers ache to grab hold of her and pull her close. He has to let her go.

His walk downtown is quick through the twisting back alleys and side streets of Arkadia. The sun dips low under the horizon causing all the reflections in the windows of the buildings to glitter like gold. A cool fog blankets the ground under his feet.

In the underground tunnel, Bellamy memorizes every step of his heavy footfalls and the smell of the damp earth. It feels like time is slowing down when he steps into the speakeasy.

The white booths and bar running along opposite sides of the room glow under the golden skulls covering the walls. Bottles of homemade liquor are stockpiled up to the ceiling on glass shelves behind the bar. Under the crystal chandelier, in the middle of the room, hovering in front of the black and white checkered dance floor is the full jazz band. They work tirelessly and without much thanks to provide the best entertainment Bellamy had ever heard.

Sweet smoke and piano notes float over to him as soon as he enters the room wrapping him in familiarity.

He laughs at the jokes of his friends and leaves Miller to his business as usual. He has to convince Harper to let him stand at the front by himself and let everyone into the speakeasy.

After a lull of steady guests, Bellamy feels Clarke's presence before he sees her. He swallows thickly when she comes through the golden door. Her golden dress fits snugly over every curve of her body landing tightly mid-thigh. It leaves her creamy legs bare down to her matching tasseled heels. Looking back up at her made-up face she arches a sharp eyebrow up over her smokey eye at him. He smirks.

Tonight Clarke has come alone.

But he doesn't kiss her cheek or reach for her hand. Doesn't push her against the wall or take her back out the tunnels to the home they once shared.

"Welcome to The Bunker, Princess," he says sharing a knowing smile with her. They're the first words he ever spoke to her.

"Aren't you going to ask me the password?" she replies back. The memories of a lifetime ago flash before his eyes. He didn't need Clarke to apologize for leaving him anymore. He had forgiven her and in his forgiveness, he hoped she would be at peace.

"Walk in with me?" Clarke asks hesitantly when he doesn't press her.

"An Arker and a Delinquent walk into a bar? I think I've heard this one before," Bellamy smirks and extends his hand for her to go first.

He doesn't follow behind her though. He just lets her go on without him. He locks the golden door of the speakeasy, having figured out the shooter had to have been coming through one of the many tunnels any minute now. He doesn't want anyone else to get hurt.

Clarke had told once him that he had a heart made out of gold, but nothing gold can stay.

—

He wakes up in a cold sweat.


End file.
